


Taste of Sunlight

by ventrue_antitribu



Category: Vampire: The Masquerade
Genre: Bloodbonding (VTM), Dubious Consent, F/M, Partial Mind Control, domestic abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-06-06 19:54:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15202289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ventrue_antitribu/pseuds/ventrue_antitribu
Summary: Promptask on tumblrI just really like writing about these two.





	Taste of Sunlight

**Author's Note:**

> [Prompt](http://shockvvaves.tumblr.com/post/162113131237/abstract-prompts) ask on tumblr
> 
> I just really like writing about these two.

The rising temperature had become an ill portent. The creeping nautical dawn hurries Delaney’s hands over the knobs on the tripod angled just before the ledge of the balcony, locking it in place. She peers through the lense at the clouds over the city, how they become painted with warmth and saturation and how in turn her skin is ablaze. How the ash of her jaw settles beneath her charcoal tongue.

She withdraws from the camera and banishes the vision to dizzying particles beneath her eyelids. Her hands are still shaking as she opens her eyes once more to the night, staring down over rooftops where mist pools; where old money still sleeps, neck hanging in the mouth of older money, completely unaware.

Delaney is tired. Not just from the rising pull of daysleep but something beyond. _You are not welcome here,_ her body screams as she leans her back against the cool glass of the sliding door and stares at the host of photography equipment she’d laid out. Her conscious mind grips the notion, constricts the resistance until it becomes resentment, until it is worn thin. Thin enough to snap with ease; fine, and dead, and broken. _You are not welcome here, but this is your only home._

Nausea runs its freezer burn fingers over her eyelids, over her lips and her collar and plays havoc on her ribs. What is awake barely registers the soft hiss of the metal door frame as the door is slipped away.

“What are you doing, Delaney?” The question sounds almost bored. Jaxton, her foster sire, now stands behind her in the doorway.

 

What is awakened casts her resentment into mockery, leaning her closer into the hand at the back of her neck, bare shoulders arching and head tilting down, shuddering at the thumbnail which grazes the side of her throat. She pulls her lower lip between her teeth, how often had she heard this same question, asked in this same manner.

“Just something for me,” The resentment speaks, cautiously stupid. His other hand closes around her upper arm tightly and yanks her back against him. His posture is stiff, his body unwelcoming.

“Interesting.” Jaxton doesn’t seem to think this is very interesting at all, but he does well to dull at least most of the edge of annoyance in his tone as he guides her none too gently back across the threshold and into his bedroom. He releases her neck and reaches past her to slide closed the door and draw shut the thick curtain.

Foolish resentment staggers Delaney’s willingness to be guided by him, keeping her resistant. At first, at least. Time isn’t given to show whether her defiance would continue. Jaxton’s hand slips down her arm and wrenches her elbow inwards, yanking her hand up towards her shoulder blade until she is forced to face him at the promise of dislocation.

His smile is somehow both impassive and predatory. His dark green eyes are inscrutable. “I see I’ve left you alone too long, Delaney. Long enough to allow–”  
Delaney looks away from him and his careful words and vaguely genteel tone die behind clenched teeth. His open hand finds the side of her face with enough force that his nails rake furrows into her cheek. He drags them open further to grip at her chin, owning the outburst as he forces her to look at him. “Do _not_ turn your eyes from me, Delaney,” He snarls, and she watches the muscle of his jaw work.

Jaxton draws her in close once more, pulling her deeper into the room so that he can sit at the edge of his bed. He grips her wrists and keeps her still between his knees. He holds her stare and she feels her sense of the passage of time slip away. One of his hands releases its grasp on her to snake over her abdomen and chest, curl around her throat. He presses his thumb against her cheek, forcing her head and then the rest of her body to turn from him. Releasing her other wrist, he loops his arm around her waist to unbalance her and she slumps back against him. He tangles her hair in his fist and shoves her head forward until the hand on her throat presses hard enough to force her mouth open in some reflexive fight for long-unneeded breath.

Before Delaney can close her mouth the grasp on her neck crawls upwards to lock her jaw in this silent scream. With his other hand he now releases her hair and smooths it to one side, resting his face into the crook of her neck for a beat and she thinks she feels his tongue rasp along the top of her shoulder but she can’t be sure. The notion is dismissed as he presses his wrist against her parted lips, splitting his skin on the nails of the hand keeping her mouth open so that his blood spills free over her tongue. His hand releases her jaw and drags down her torso until his fingers lock against her inner thigh.

“Too long, indeed.” Jaxton’s posture all but relaxes as she shivers against him. He silences a groan against her shoulder. She drinks and the taste of his blood drowns what small and quiet parts of her still harbor resentment; this bastard, twisted Eucharist - this sick sense of forgiveness. This taste a reminder, her resistance so far gone that even questioning the totality of his hold on her is an impossibility.


End file.
